The Cutwell Chronicles
by Egleriel
Summary: AU: Cutwell isn't going out with Keli ... yet. And just when she needs a wizard around, he's summoned to UU reunion. Who exactly is this mysterious visitor? Will it be too late for Cutwell by the time he gets back? Will it be too late for Keli? CORRECTED
1. Intro

* * *

THE

CUTWELL

CHRONICLES

* * *

A big messy (and revised)fanfic by Egleriel.

-

-

I finally got round to revamping this old clunker of a fanfic, now that I've actually read all the Discworlds. (And bought them. And asked Terry Pratchett questions. And got answers. And generally joined DW fandom.) I've fixed all the stupid mistakes that come from trying to write a fic after reading four out of thirty.

So here it is - the Cutwell Chronicles, where Cutwell doesn't get involved with Keli. It's set five years after _Mort_.

So... on with the show.


	2. Changed, Sort Of

**II. Changed, Sort Of**

Three years had passed since Mort and Ysabell's wedding; it was also five years into the reign of Queen Keli of Sto Lat, and on the whole, Igneous Cutwell was doing very well for himself. He had lost weight, cleaned his house and hired a speech therapist for his doorknocker. He had also become famous for potions throughout the city; word had spread to Sto Helit and even over the Sto Plains to Ankh-Morpork.

Cutwell was also Grand Vizier to the Queen, but refrained from staying over at the Palace to avoid her - he had a living to make, after all. The trouble was that he was notoriously slow when it came to potion making.  
All right, think about this: a doctor is trying to find a cure for acne, but isn't allowed to think about spots. Imagine poor Cutwell making ... preventative ... potions without being allowed to think about the cause ofwhat he was preventing. But all in all, life was good, thought Cutwell.

"So, is there anything we do?" demanded Keli, slicing through fuzzy philosophy. "Something strong."

"Er, we should evict the tenant and put him to work in the cabbage fields," said Cutwell.

"You realise," she giggled, "that I was talking about baby Susan's bowel problem."

"Yes, of course! I simply meant that we need a new sewer, running straight into the Plain. It would... naturally fertilise the plants and increase Sto Lat's exports tenfold!"

Keli peered at him contemplatively. "Yuck. Although," she said, "that's not actually abad idea for waffle. But back to the baby - Ysabell needs a potion that'll clear up her diarrhoea. "

"Oh. She's probably just teething. Tell Bella - I mean the Duchess - to just put up with it."

"Right." Keli looked into her lap for a moment. "You know, if you're that bored, you can go."

"Thank you, Majesty," he gushed.

Cutwell scurried out of the throne room. Keli watched him go and remembered the tubby wizard who had saved her life several times. What a different man he was now. The six lost stone made him seem a little taller, though that might have been to do with the hat, which could easily have housed a good-sized toddler.

* * *

Cutwell flopped into his chair with a loud squishy sound, rather like when you sit down after not-having-made-it-to-the-toilet-in-time. He groaned, pulling a half-eaten jelly out from under himself.  
He HAD cleaned his house - a Spring Cleaning as they said in Ankh-Morpork - but it was early autumn now and his sleeve was currently glued to the chair by last week's honey.

Giving the table a wipe, Cutwell whipped out a steel wool scrubber and began digging deep trenches in the solid filth atop his table. He stood back, amazed. His table was actually made of polished Blue Bloogletree wood, not oak. Excellent. Went with the floor ... assuming that the floor wasn't ebony after all. Then he started chipping away the dirt on the other half of the table. Just then, someone knocked on the door.

"... yes, yes - new man altogether. Well, nearly-new, anyway."

"Lisp's gone, I notice-"

Cutwell opened the door. "Igneous!" cried a person Cutwell had never seen before in his life. "Just here to invite you to the Unseen University's quad-annual regraduation next week!"

"Er-what?"

"You don't know?" The stranger looked shocked when Cutwell shook his head."They _did_ send out messengers a month ago... you never know, out here in the stalks.†"

"It's the second-largest city on the plains," said Cutwell in an injured tone of voice.

"Yes, I know." The messenger shuddered. "What's it like, being so far from civilisation?"

"It's only twenty-" Cutwell gave up. Now he remembered why he'd left Ankh-Morpork. It began with an I. "Terrible."

"Well then, I suppose I'd better tell you. You came sixth in your class, so you're supposed to return once every six years. Replenish the knowledge - you know."

"Gods help old Peter Winger!" laughed Cutwell.

"Indeed," said the visitor seriously. "He's not allowed to come back for another ... let's see ... 94 years. He won't be able to burn his way out of a paper bag by then. Literally."

"94 years!" exclaimed the wizard. "But there were only 15 in our class."

"Don't ask me. Are you coming or not?"

"I suppose so," Cutwell shrugged.

"Fantastic! Must be off."

Before Cutwell could even say 'goodbye', there was a twister of purple smoke and Cutwell could just see the stranger sprint round the corner. If the regraduation were next week, he would have to leave in two days.  
Until then...

"Gods above! I didn't know that fork was metal!"

* * *

†Like the sticks, but with more cabbages.

* * *

"No, I can't take any orders, I'm afraid. Going away for a week."

"When'll you be back?" asked the young man desperately. "My girlfriend- "

"I'm sure that if she's waited 17 years, she can wait another two weeks," smiled Cutwell sagely.

"Two? But you said-"

"You don't understand," said Cutwell, shaking his head. "To make that particular draught ... it's a wizard thing."

"Oh," the teenager glanced down. He leered. "I get it. Oi! Where are you going?"

By then, Cutwell was on the other side of the Palace Gates. "I work here," he said. "And gods help me when I have to tell _her_," he added in a mutter.

†Like the sticks, but with more cabbages. 


	3. Arrivals and Departures

**III. Arrivals and Departures**

The sun was setting over the Sto Plains and Cutwell was packed and ready to go. The Royal Cabbage Collector was going out as far as the village of Scrote to negotiate supplies forthe Palace kitchens. From there, Cutwell would have tomake his own wayto Ankh-Morpork.

Sitting on the steps of the Palace, he began to muse about the Unseen University - he had a lot of fond memories of the Library, and being chased out by the Librarian - a wizard changed into full-grown male orang-utan a year or two before Cutwell's graduation; he simply refused to be turned back.  
Not to mention the old Archchancellors. Let's see, there was Weatherwax and Geriven, and that fellow just before the end of term...

Even the reek of the city seemed pleasantly nostalgic.

Sowhat of Ankh-Morpork itself? The frankly _insane_ Patrician Snapcase and the hopeless City Watch were just two of the things Cutwell remembered about city life.  
Two of the FEW things. Cutwell tilted his head. Maybe this vague amnesia had something to do with that bloody river. Something he'd have check out when he got there.

At long last, the cart arrived. "You! Bloke wiv uh pointy 'at!" hollered the Cabbage Collector.

Cutwell leapt up off the step (praising the gods for the Blacksmith Diet that enabled him to leap anywhere) and clambered onto the bench beside the Collector.

"Right - off we go!" shouted the Collector, less to Cutwell than to the spot where he had been sitting previously.

With a last glance at the Palace, Igneous Cutwell remembered the suitors that would arrive on Monday to attempt to woo the Queen. It was enough to make him consider skipping the reunion and running into the throne room for a conventional confession of love type of thing. Turning away, he heard the unmistakeable bass fanfare of Sto Helit.

The trouble with the gate of Sto Lat was that it was only wide enough for either two common carts or one aristocratic embassy. Unfortunately, Cutwell's common cart happened to reach the gate at precisely the same time as a haughty aristocratic embassy.

"Out of the way, you filthy little wizard!" snobbed a supercilious driver. "Make way for the Patrician's nephew."

"Ya know wot I fink of yah bladdy Patrishin?" howled the Collector, spitting on the ground. "That!"

_Damn_, thought Cutwell. _He's from Sto Kerrig.  
_The loud and often indecipherable Sto Kerrig accent -which could pass for an extremely strong Morporkian one at, say, a Music With Rocks In concert - was famed throughout the Disc.

"The nerve! And what, might I ask, is so special about YOU?"

"I'm the Royauh Cabbidge-"

"We're nobody," interrupted Cutwell. He turned to the Collector."Just let them through," he pleaded.

"An' I'll tell ya somefink else-"

A dark head emerged from the carriage. "Cutwell, is it?" And it moved on.

* * *

Keli was feeling a bit down - and it had nothing to do with the six republican assassination attempts that morning. It was because she didn't have her best friend about. Best friend - that was the word. 

Keli had invited the Duke and Duchess of Sto Helit to keep her company until the courtiers arrived on Monday, so at least she had someone to talk to.

Suddenly Keli caught herself on. 'What on earth would Father say!' she thought. 'I, Princ- QUEEN Keliherenna of Sto Lat, moping about over some useless wizard!' Her father hadn't been too fond of wizards. At all.

A fanfare at sunset announced Mort and Ysabell's arrival. A hyperactive herald, new to the job, burst into the throne room. All present rolled their eyes.

"Presenting the honourable Duke Mortimer Sto Helit, son of Lezek of- er- the Ramtops; and the noble Duchess Ysabell Sto Helit, daughter of," he faltered, "someone else probablyimportant. And their daughter, the Lady Susan Sto Helit."

With considerably less ceremony, Mort and Ysabell made their way up the hall. Keli stood up and went to meet them halfway.

"Evening," grinned Mort. He had finally grown into his own height in the yearssince becoming Death's apprentice; he had taken to wearing dark, simple robes, and today's were of dark blue silk.  
And Ysabell had kept her fashion taste; the icy pink muslin confection she wore indicated that her sweet tooth also remained.

"Keli!" squealed Ysabell. After a definitely Common hug, she said, "Where's Cutwell?"

"Reunion at the Unseen University," Keli answered dully. She didn't like the knowing look Mort and Ysabell had exchanged.

"Oh," they smiled in unison. Keli rolled her eyes.

"Shall we?" she said graciously, gesturing to the dining room door.

As the couple opened their mouths, another herald - more experienced but also better supplied- burst through the doors. The Sto Helit herald glared enviously at him. You couldn't teach that kind of entrance.

"Presentiiiing Lord Edwin Nova Vetinari: son of Marietta-Susanne Vetinari; nephew of the Patrician Havelock Vetinari of Ankh-Morpork!"

A tall, muscled man in armour stepped into the hall. He wore deep red surcoat quartered with fetid green rivers and golden palaces, and his dark hair was mostly hidden under a jaunty plumed cap.

"He's two days early," said Keli, horrified.


	4. Unexpected Things

**IV. Unexpected Things**

Igneous Cutwell crawled across the pavement. Delirious with lack of intelligent conversation, he thought the dog that had pissed on his robe could talk†. Then again, this was Ankh-Morpork. He clawed his way up the stairs, gibbering about insane drivers and budget chicken manure.

The doors flung open and a musty smell spilled out into the courtyard. A scrawny bearded man in a battered red robe that had once been fine was framed in the doorway. "Igneous Cutwell!" he said, obviously in a good mood. "Welcome back!"

"Whimmimmiha," is perhaps the most eloquent way of expressing Cutwell's greeting. Rincewind sighed and supported Cutwell inside.

They entered a conference room, where Cutwell was dropped into a padded seat. Slowly, the young wizard regained his senses and was soon uncomfortably aware of a few things. He reeked of canine urine, was wearing a frayed brown linen tunic, and (worst of all) was sitting smack in the middle of the clever, nasty and (of old) juvenile boys who'd teased the 17- year-old Cutwell about his weight.

And they were all wearing high-end robes and royal emblems. He'd never be recognised asa Royal Recogniser.

* * *

†Though in Ankh-Morpork, you never know.

* * *

Despite Keli's firm but polite protestations, Ysabell and Mort chose to dine in their chambers that night, leaving Keli alone with this 'Edwin Nova Vetinari'. 

"So..." said Keli. "You're the Patrician's nephew."

"Yes, milady," said Edwin Nova Vetinari in a voice soft and smooth as room-temperature butter. "Well, adoptive nephew. Havelock has no siblings."

Keli looked confused. "Then might I ask how...?"

"In truth I am the son of his Uncle Hagett's daughter-in-law's cousin," clarified Edwin with a half-smile. "But the Patrician dislikes complication, and calls me his nephew."

"Oh." This man was so utterly different from Cutwell, she thought. Somehow, she had not imagined that eligible bachelors could be quite like this Edwin. A little Cutwell-shaped conscience appeared in the top corner of her mind.

'He's related to Vetinari!' it warned. 'The man's only been in office six months and he's had SIXTEEN mimes 'disappear'!'

Then the curly blonde hair straightened out, darkened and withdrew into the head. The rosy cheeks paled; the eyes became smaller and sparked. 'I hate mimes,' said the little Edwin.

Keli grinned.

* * *

"Wonder how they're getting on," said Ysabell, folding a corset into the armoire. 

"Who?" said Mort. Ysabell gave him an exasperated look.

"Keli and Vetinari!"

"Oh, them," said Mort.

"Yes, them!" Ysabell flopped down on the bed and stared wistfully out the window. Mort sighed impatiently and turned away. "It'll be good for her to get that wizard out of her head."

"Mmm."

"She says he's changed a lot," said Ysabell conversationally. "Lost weight and all that. Still not doing a lot of magic."

"Must be hard for him," grinned Mort. "All those bedroom councils..."

"No," said Ysabell, biting her lip. "I don't think it's like that. I think-" her eyes glazed over "-that he likes Keli!"

Far from looking shocked, Mort looked at his wife and slowly began to clap.

"Oh, shut up!" she snapped. "I've known all along, but I've only just realised what that MEANS! If Keli takes to one of her courtiers, Cutwell will be crushed - but if those two get together, then Cutwell will probably lose his magic altogether!"

"Seriously, though," added Mort. "If Cutwell gets married, the UU will revoke his DM and he won't be _allowed_ to do any magic."

Ysabell thought about it and her heart sank. She had spent years imagining romantically tragic situations, but most of them ended in either suicide or happiness. In her fantasies, there was never any such thing as forever-unrequited love. Because that was just being evil to her characters.

"Poor Cutwell," she sighed.

"Poor Cutwell," agreed Mort, putting an arm around his wife.

"You know, in all my favourite stories, there's loads of dark passion and anguish. But this is real life, and it's a lot more painful, somehow."

"That's because it's real, darling," soothed Mort. "I have to say-"

DINNER, said someone at the door.

"About t-" Ysabell began. Then she realised that she only knew one person who could speak without the need for vocal chords. Or ears. Flinging open the door, she squealed and almost upset a massive silver tray held by a robed figure. "Father!"

I JUST FINISHED THE DUTY said Death AND I REMEMBERED THAT YOU TWO WERE COMING HERE FOR THE WEEKEND. I HAVE TO BE IN AWAY IN AN HOUR, SO LET'S MAKE THIS QUICK.

"Who is it?" asked Ysabell.

SOME STUPID EPHEBIAN TOURISTS WERE MESSING ABOUT IN DJELIBEYBI. ONE IDIOT PUSHED HIS FRIEND INTO THE DJEL. VERY MESSY.

After two years of normality, it never even occurred to Mort that this was odd: eating a roast beef dinner in the palace at Sto Lat with the Grim Reaper and his daughter. In fact, it felt more normal than anything else had since leaving Death's house.

SO, HOW IS SUSAN GETTING ON?

"Oh, she's fine," chatted Ysabell. "Terrible diarrhoea. Keli said that Cutwell said she's teething, which I suppose makes sense. But it doesn't change the fact that her crap is -"

"Bella," pleaded Mort, "we're eating."

"Oh. Right. Sorry."


	5. Bad Smells

**V. Bad Smells**

Keli cast her mind around, looking for something to say. She considered telling a joke, but decided it might not be very... majestic.

"I hear Ankh-Morpork is lovely this time of year," she said.

"Really?" laughed Edwin, suddenly dropping his reserved manner. "Who on earth told you that?"

"Er-"

"Suffice it to say,theriver is particularly toxic andany partof the city downwind of it becomes mysteriouslydeserted."

"Is it true that the river is solid?" asked Keli, also smiling.

"Unfortunately. Some unlicensed thieves tried to drown an acquaintance of mine in it, but when they pushed him off the bridge, he bounced. Landed on the thieves, actually. The Thieves' Guild saw to it that broken limbs were the least of their problems."

"Yes... I've heard about that. Legalised theft. I expect the crime rate must be astronomical."

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" nodded Edwin. "But the thing is, you can pay the Guild a premium and they'll leave you alone for a year. And they have to leave you a card. If a citizen is robbed with no note, they take it up with the Thieves' Guild and the unlicensed thief is... dealt with."

"Dealt with?"

"Let's just say that the weathercock on top of the Thieves' Guild makes an excellent skewer."

"That's disgusting."

"I prefer 'reassuring'. It's a deterrent to other unlicensed thieves."

"Yes, I can imagine."

* * *

A servant arrived presently to take the dirty dishes downstairs.

"That was a bloody near miss!" cried Mort when the servant was gone.

"She didn't see anything!" exclaimed Ysabell.

"Say what you want, but he disappeared the _moment_ she came in! Never again! What if she'd got a glimpse?"

"Mort," reasoned Ysabell, "We'll have to tell the servants eventually. He'll bepoppinground to see Susan-"

"Yes, about that," Mort interrupted savagely. "Do you think it's ... healthy ... for a young girl to-"

"Now you stop that!" interjected Ysabell with equal severity. "We've been through this before! Death or not, he's still my father!"

There was an awkward silence between the two adults, like the hush in the wake of a tidal wave. Susan had started to cry.

"Erm, Ysabell?" said Mort meekly, staring at his daughter.

"What?"

"Do you notice how - when Susan cries - the rest of her face goes red, but there's a mark..."

"Right where Father slapped you," nodded Ysabell. "Yes. Odd, isn't it?"

"But people don't generally inherit scars."

"They don't? Oh. Well, I suppose genes must make exceptions for Death."

* * *

There were eight courses. Eighteen magnificent courses: soup, salad, white meat, red meat, fish, some odd Klatchian dish, ice cream and dessert.

The rich wizards sitting around Cutwell were chuckling amiably about the "good old days" at UU. Cutwell tried to be inconspicuous, but his smell had other ideas; indeed, everyone around him had shifted their chairs about a foot away from him, but that did little to alleviate the assault on their nostrils.

He slumped miserably in his chair. This could not get any worse‡.

The Archchancellor at the top of the table was swaying slightly in his chair. After a moment, his face swayed into the table. His extremely long nose was saved from certain fracture by the fluffy chocolate pudding before on his plate.  
However, he sharply raised his head, with the words, "Ludic-" and he fell again. There was a nasty cracking noise; he'd missed the pudding this time.

A lecturer that Cutwell had never seen before dipped a finger into the Arch Chancellor's wine and sniffed it. Giving the finger a suspicious glare, he gingerly licked it.

"There's something in this wine."

"What?" asked one wizard anxiously.

"Buggered if I know, but it smells likedog piss."

Everyone turned... to Cutwell.

* * *

‡As absolutely everyone knows, it is extremely dangerous to think a situation can get no worse, because obviously the moment such a thought crosses your mind, the situation is completely certain to, indeed, become worse. This is required by law, much like the ominous burning wheel that rolls away from every carriage accident, or the smoking boots that always remain when someone has been murdered by magic.

* * *

"Ptarinexos, you idiot!" cried the unlucky Ephebian. "Don't you see the bloody crocodiles! And this toga is dry-clean only! Look at all the-"

He tried futilely to brush off some of the mud, but his hand went through his own body.

I AM AFRAID THAT YOU WILL NO LONGER REQUIRE A TOGA.

"That's illegal," protested the Ephebian.

THERE IS NOMORE DRY-CLEANING.

"What about that one-"

I SUGGEST THAT YOU TAKE A LOOK BEHIND YOU.

TheEphebian turned around. "Oh."

YES.


End file.
